She screamed out in pain as the knife cut deeply into her skin, another smile to show how proud she was,
another straight line for the scars to grow on,
another thought of suicide erupts from her head and she whispers about her life—based on memories not hers.
“Kill me with another laugh, scold me with another hit, burn me with your cold metal,
and I’ll keep loving you.”
She held that blade to her wrist, teasing the tender flesh with small nips, then brought the knife higher up.
“ Look out the window love, see how it’s covered? You see nothing out of it?”
The knife gave no answer, only the malicious glint it gave with the light caught it—silver and crimson.
“ You see, it reminds me of everything I’ve done right since you.”
The spicy smell of the scented oils drifted over the grave like a ghostly summon. The candles flickered across the face of the dark figure that stood still in the shadows, watching with cold red mirth.
Another figure stood over the grave, tears fell to the soil above the grave, as did the blood that titter-tat from his shoulder wound. It drenched his arm and mimicked the irregular beating of his heart. He gasped in pain and clutched his chest with a bloody hand, staining the already soiled clothes he wore. He closed his eyes tightly, his breathing coming out in short desperate pants.
A bubble of blood caught in his throat until her forced it up, spitting it onto the grave. The blood was as black as the night, despite the candles. He swiped a hand under his nose where he felt the blood twinkling down steadily, and did the same motion to the blood coming from his tear ducts.
“ You’re going to kill me aren’t you, you bastard?” He asked quietly. His brown eyes flashed in anger as he turned to look at the red-eyed black-haired devil behind him.
A small smirk was his answer.
“You will wither away into the dust you are.”
A ghostly wind blew, causing the dead branches above to moan in turn. He turned back to the grave, his eyes soften at the mound of soil, but harden once more at the smell and sight of the spicy smoke of the oils.
He grasped his neck, rubbing the bruised skin softly, regaining his breathe. He stood again, and looked to the pathetic excuse of a grave. “Please forgive me.”
“ We’ll see you in hell.”
“ I’ve made a pact with hell. No you won’t.”
Driven until we fall,
Found to be lost, and hurt to be loved,
Gifts taken only to be received,
I bind you in the chains of the forsaken,
That is your fate.
“ Does it hurt?”
She whimpered, trying hard not to cry, she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.
“ Don’t you dare scream.”
She shook her head. “ No screaming, master.” She whispered through her pain.
“ Good then.” He picked up the whip, “Another ten strokes then.”
The hunt of his prey causes his blood to rise, and he knows that it’s all worth it, the blood was the life, it sounded beautiful to his ears as she’s running. His own beast hums in return for the excitement it’s igniting within himself.
He smiled, revealing the sharp ivory glint of fangs in the moonlight, the tool for providing him with his food. His eyes flashes from the deadest of blacks to the reddest of lust that he could muster. He feels so dead, yet the chase and the blood gives him life.
He could smell her running wildly, blinded into the woods, deeper from her home, and wonders why the poor fool of a woman thinks she can escape him. No one could escape him.
She’s a prisoner in the forest, passing the moonlit blurs of trees she passed, she sees only brown, greens, and blacks.
Her heart pounded wildly, the sound a special song.
“ Another beat that calls life, another life taken.”
He stared at the wall, eyes dark and hurt.
“ A thousand.” He whispered to himself.
‘What is that?’ Another part of him asked.
“ Another thousand lives wasted, another thousand drained to keep one tainted soul living.”
Fantasies broken along with dreams that sink into blankets and ignites nightmares of man days past. And dried tears fall into the floor to burn you when you walk barefoot across the floor. Memories forgotten, and those yet to know, will freeze your heart, and put fear into your belly. Like a ball of iron, it gags us—choking—us like strong fingers tightening around our neck.
Willow trees line the greenish-gray creek; low-hanging branches dip into the water as if taking a drink, while the higher branches reach to the sky, like the bony fingers of those desperate for hope. We sail along the river, my throat and lips are parched as I lower my cup into the river, and bring it to my lips, I drink.
The water burns it’s way down like poison—acid—and it’s bitter like tears and sweat and blood of those who lives are long forgotten, and their remaining memories, some sad, others painful, I grasp my chest as my heart beats wildly in pain. I glance over at my friend, to find those dark eyes watching me.
“ There isn’t enough white in the world.”
“ White, the color of innocent. There’s nothing anymore. Grown-ups forget their inner child, the last of their innocence, and lets it smothered under the lies of the world.”